The dream began in Year 8, when our form teacher decided to rearrange the seating plan. I, Katie Sullivanperpetual underachiever and the classs resident firecrackerfound myself sharing a desk with Oliver. Oliver Whitmore. The cleverest, quietest, most unattainable boy in 8B.
He belonged to another world. His blazer was always perfectly pressed, he solved equations with ease, and his calm, distant gaze made it seem as though he knew all the universes secrets. I was his oppositemy world was school dances, laughing until my ribs ached, and whispering with my mates at the back of the classroom. Studying was the last thing on my mind.
At first, we didnt speak. He buried himself in textbooks while I doodled in my exercise book. Then one day, I couldnt solve a simple algebra problem and flung my pen down in frustration.
*”Stuck?”* he murmured.
I just waved a hand helplessly. Without a word, Oliver took my book, scribbled a few neat lines, and slid it back.
*”Look. You just needed to factor it out.”*
The ice thawed after that. He started helping mefirst with algebra, then physics, then essays. I discovered another Olivernot the stiff bookworm, but a patient, sharp-witted, surprisingly profound boy. Wed stay after school, and hed explain Newtons laws as if they were adventure stories.
I fell for him. Hopelessly, recklessly, forever. Soon, I swore he felt the same. He smiled more, cracked dry jokes, and once, while walking me home, said, *”You know, Katie, the worlds brighter when you’re around.”*
Thats when I had my mad idea: Id prove myself his equal. I declared Id earn a silver medal at graduation.
*”You serious?”* he asked.
*”Deadly. But Ill need your helpas my tutor.”*
He agreed. His mother forbade him from bringing friends home, so we studied at my place. First every other day, then daily. Oliver was a merciless teacherno slacking allowed. I quit parties, stopped lounging about. Sometimes I wanted to give up, but hed say, *”Youre stronger than this, Katie. Youve got this.”* And Id push onbecause I had a goal and a very big crush on my tutor.
At prom, the headmistress handed me my certificateone B in physicsand that silver medal. When I caught Olivers gaze, the pride in his eyes stole my breath. Later, his hand firm on my waist as we danced, he whispered, *”Im in awe of you. You could do anything, Katie Sullivan.”*
Happiness felt so close.
But one person saw me not as clever or drivenjust as a threat to her sons future. His mother, Evelyn Whitmore, a widow and former military wife, loved Oliver fiercely. A woman with a spine of steel, frosty eyes, and hair always immaculate. I used to wonderdid she style it herself, or did she visit the salon daily? I never dared ask.
Evelyn had looked down on me from the start, never returning my greetings if we crossed paths in town.
She knew of our friendship but pretended I didnt exist. The night Oliver invited me to dinnerclaiming his mother *”wanted to talk”*was burned into memory. The table was laid with starched linen; the cutlery gleamed. Evelyn worked in law, and her questions felt like an interrogation:
*”Katie, what do your parents do? Factory workers? Only child? Is your council house privatised yet?”* Her smile was thin. *”Schools one thing, but university is serious. Oliver must focus on his studies, not distractions.”*
I tried joking, mentioned my teaching ambitionshow well Oliver had prepared me. But I felt like a fly in a spiders web. Her eyes said it plainly: *”Youre not good enough for my son.”* Oliver weakly protested*”Mum, enough”*but it sounded childish. To her, hed always be a boy needing protection.
After school, Oliver left for London, breezing into a prestigious military academyhis late fathers alma mater. I enrolled at a local teaching college. He sent two letters, full of love and dreams of our future. But fate had other plans. I found out I was pregnantconceived our first and last night together.
I wrote to him immediately. His mother replied. In clipped tones, Evelyn stated Oliver must focus on his career, that the child was my responsibility, and her family couldnt afford scandal. A scribbled postscript in his hand read: *”Katie, Im sorry. Sort it out. I cant go against my family.”*
*”Coward,”* I thoughtand in that moment, I grew up. I didnt chase him. Never wrote again. Pride and hurt outlasted love. My parents didnt judge. Instead, they stood by me, even in the late ’80s, when having a child unmarried was shameful. Mum hugged me tight and said, *”Babies made in love grow up happy.”* She was right.
My son arrived a week before my eighteenth birthday. I named him Benedict, gave him my surname, left the fathers line blank. We lived with my parents. Evelyn never once glanced our wayas if Benedict didnt exist. We never fought for recognition. *”You cant force love,”* Mum said. *”Dont waste time on them.”*
With my parents help, I trained as a hairdresser, built a clientele. Dad took out a loan so I could open a salon. Benedict and I eventually moved into our own flat. Years later, on holiday, I met Andrewa man who loved us both. We moved to Germany, had a daughter.
Benedict grew serious, drivenhis fathers sharp mind, my restless energy. He became a brilliant lawyer. I was proud. Happy. Yet sometimes, in the quiet dark, Id ache for the life I mightve had with Oliver.
His fate was different. Rumours said he excelled in the academy but floundered in the militarytoo principled, too rigid. He clashed with superiors, was discharged, drifted through jobspolice, engineering, insurance. Never married. After Evelyn died, he lived alone in their old flat, a tomb of lost chances. He never met Benedict. Never knew what a remarkable man his son became.
That boywho came into my life when I was still a child myselfgot all the love I had to give. For years, he was my joy, my purpose. He grew up knowing he was born from extraordinary love. I believed Oliver had loved mejust not enough to defy his mother.
Once, when Benedict ran a top firm in Berlin, he asked:
*”Mum, what if youd stayed with him?”*
I looked at my brilliant, handsome sonhis fathers eyesand smiled.
*”Then you wouldnt be you. And I wouldnt be me. We dont choose for others. We just live, do our best, and call it fate.”*
It was true. My boy was my triumphthe best possible ending to those first, childish, but real feelings. So let regrets stay with that quiet boy who once chose fear over love. His loneliness is his burden. My happiness? Proof that life repays youif you let it.
